Monday, June 4, 2007

Moby-Dick, or, The Slog

Well, friends, I passed a major literary landmark today.

No, no, I didn't actually finish Moby-Dick, the book I've been reading for days and days. (See previous posts, below.) That would call for fireworks and some kind of major purchase to reward myself. Like maybe a second car. Something sporty. In red.

But I did pass page 400. Only 255 left to go!

Yesterday, I felt so sick of the thing, I couldn't look at it. Today, I was laughing out loud at various cetological witticisms while at Starbucks during my late-afternoon reading jaunt (a lovely day for reading, low 60s and rainy as heck).

The whole experience is starting to remind me vividly of the feeling I used to get on extra-long hikes. There's the high of starting out, and then of reaching the half-way point or various lovely vistas. In between the highs come those sloggy "reconsideration" points. "Oh, brother. I've got hours of schlepping to go. What the devil was I thinking? Why did I ever start this? I'll never get there. Oh, yay, it's starting to rain."

By the end of the trail, not only do I have the benefit of all the little highs along the way; I also have bragging rights. Now, don't think there isn't a little pride when I slap that two-pound tome down on the table next to the comfy chair at the local café. "Yeah. That's right, baby. I'm reading... this."

'Course, that wears off pretty quick once I bog down at page 387 in a nine-page comparative dissection of the bodies of the sperm whale and the right whale.

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